Fifteen Years
by Rose-Divine
Summary: Really, what he does and does not remember can be counted in years. Hiro-centric, post-Bad Luck.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's notes: This can be seen as a companion piece to "Where It All Led," but it's not a direct sequel. The lyrics at the beginning are from Anais Mitchell's "Orion."

**Fifteen Years**

_Hey, Orion, he's falling_

_Catch him if you can_

_Hey, Orion, he's calling_

_Amen, amen, amen_

Five, ten, fifteen years later, it's hard to remember the little things. It's not the music, or the way that they felt on stage -- no, those things have remained. He still keeps his guitar in the apartment, takes it out to play a little on good days and improvises until his fingers are bloody on bad ones, on the days when the surgery didn't go right or there were complications and now there are empty eyes instead of full ones. And the operating room -- in some ways, it's better than the stage ever was, because for once in his life, he's in the foreground and not in the background. It wasn't so much that he didn't mind stepping back to Shuichi, because Shuichi was Shuichi and that was enough, but that he's never felt this way before.

Really, what he does and does not remember can be counted in years.

Five years later, it's hard to tell the difference between a guitar pick and a scalpel; there are similarities, although his classmates laugh awkwardly and joke the few times that he brings them up. He smiles at him, half-smiles, crooked, the old glitter still in his brown eyes as he watches their movements, graceful only from practice. There are ways that the stage has helped him here, ways that dealing with the press has made him more equipped for this job, but after a while, he doesn't mention it at all.

Five years later, he can hardly remember the swing of red hair against the back of his neck, the heavy layers that were his signature. Shuichi laughs when he first sees it short, his purple eyes glistening slightly, and Hiro suddenly remembers --

_Hiro --_

_Yeah, Shu?_

_When that thing… with… Taki… happened, the main thing that I remember from afterwards is your hair._

_He looked down at the table between them, holding a half-empty bottle of beer between short, slim fingers. Shuichi's nails were painted and bejeweled, ridiculous and trampy and sexy, and the other man didn't want to think about it, didn't want to know what the novelist thought of them._

_Oh._

_Yeah. Shuichi shrugged. I don't know why I thought that you should know, but --_

_It's okay, he said, and took another swig of beer. Besides… You weren't yourself._

_No, the shorter man replied, and then asked about something else, instead._

When the vocalist says that it looks good, reaching up with newly-polished nails to run his fingers through the drastically shortened strands, Hiro looks up and sees golden eyes staring at them through the doorway. Unable to tell if the gaze is a challenge or a cool welcome, he holds his ground, and the novelist finally nods.

Five years later, he marries Haru, and Shuichi sings at the reception with Suguru at the piano. As they walk down the aisle, he realizes that the music is never going to disappear.

Ten years later, he's able to look at the old pictures, flip through the old tabloid stories and the interviews, and frown when he sees himself, sees quotes that he said that he cannot remember. Shuichi's are still clear, pulled from the recesses of his mind, and there are days when even Suguru seems to be whispering in his ear. His own voice, however, remains a mystery, musical terms replaced with medical ones, and the guitar sits alone in the corner.

Ten years later, he runs into Suguru in a restaurant, hoity-toity and posh, the other man looking surprised and elegant. They're both dressed in suits, Suguru's hair either dyed dark blond or allowed to return to its natural color, and he has that tight-lipped Seguichi smile that Hiro remembers so well.

Hello, Nakano-san, the keyboardist says, and delicately removes a glove to offer his former bandmate a naked hand.

I thought that you stayed in the states, he replies, taking the hand and pulling the other man into a hug. Suguru tenses slightly in the taller man's arms, and it's only when they pull apart that he notices the man standing behind the blond.

This is Kazumi, the younger man says, and gestures toward him.

They bow, sizing each other up, and the keyboardist smiles. I didn't stay in the states, he answers, because it wasn't home.

He can understand that, and he nods, pulling his eyes away from his old friend's companion. How is the playing going? he asks. I heard that you joined a new band.

Suguru shifts on his feet, and his companion goes to stand behind him, large and protective -- a wall against the past, he thinks, and dismisses the thought immediately.

Yeah, he finally admits. And you're really a doctor now?

The red-head nods, and the other chuckles. I guess, the half-gloved man continues, his voice a little sad, it wasn't a vacation after all.

All that he can do is nod and try to smile back. I guess not, he replies, and he hasn't seen Suguru since.

When he gets home that night, he can't decide if he wants to drink or to play, and so he compromises, the stereo playing lightly in the background as he pulls out a bottle of beer and watches the music channel on TV. Haru lingers in the doorway, finally coming to sit beside him on the sofa, and he wraps his arm around her. One hand on her swollen stomach, he listens to the bass radiate through her body. If nothing else, their child will know.

Fifteen years later, he's back on the cover of a magazine, this time rated on a chart that he hadn't even imagined years ago, when the musical charts were the only ones that he paid attention to. It gets him recognition, gets him phone calls from both of his old bandmates, from people that he used to work with, and for the first time in almost five years, he gets out his guitar and plays not for his child, but for himself.

They all set up a weekend to meet, two days to get together, one just for them -- guitarist, keyboardist, singer -- and another for the things that have changed and those that haven't. Doctor and his wife, keyboardist and his lover, singer and his everything.

When he realizes that he's looking forward to it, he even breaks out a notebook and a pen, skipping past pages of notes and anatomy drawings to scrawl down part of a song that, even if they never get a chance to record it, he'll end up filing away under Bad Luck. Beside the clippings and photos it looks small, folded in on itself, and he runs a finger over it once more before the closing the drawer.

There are scalpels to be cleaned and guitar picks to be put away, and if sometimes he can't tell the difference between how they feel in his hand, well, it's better than just forgetting how things used to be, and there's a kind of peace in that.


End file.
